


Black Fingers

by juangeedraws



Series: pitches and zion [1]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Hades Tigers (Blaseball Team), ive never written fic before please be kind, there isn't any angst now but there MAY be, they're gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26793685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juangeedraws/pseuds/juangeedraws
Summary: black fingersnounnoun: black fingers; plural noun: blackfingers1 : a notable ability to make machines grow.Pitching Machine finds Zion for emergency maintenance.
Relationships: Zion Aliciakeyes/Pitching Machine
Series: pitches and zion [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953883
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	1. emergency maintenance

**Author's Note:**

> i kept joking about shipping zion & pm together and then it wasn't a joke anymore (｡•́︿•̀｡)

“You’re too tense,” Zion murmurs. “Relax your shoulders, or this will hurt.”

That was the first thing Zion had said in quite a while.

Pitching Machine had barged into her workshop a day earlier, coughing out clouds of black smoke. A rushed project like her was bound to have more than a few maintenance problems, Zion knew. Who knew how long she was meant to last, anyway? Time worked differently here; the years blended into weeks. It was anyone’s guess.

Whatever Pitching Machine was – robot, zombie, or a messed-up combination of both – she had no off switch, sleep mode, or organs that allowed the use of anaesthetic. So here she sat, legs dangling off the edge of the workbench, while the Hades Tiger’s batter Zion Aliciakeyes ripped out and replaced her organs crouched behind her on the table. Nearly thirty hours had passed.

Pitching Machine winces as Zion inserts something into her back.

Looking to distract herself, she squints at the small, dirty mirror sitting across the workshop, trying to catch a glimpse of the smaller woman behind her. No luck – with Zion squatting behind her, even her gangly frame sitting on the edge of the workbench could conceal the imp from the view.

“Isn’t it a bit too dim?” Pitching Machine asks.  
  
“The light’s for special occasions. I can see in the dark.”

“Oh.” Pitching Machine replies, letting the conversation dry up and sending the both of them back into awkward silence. The physical makeup of devils and their ilk – imps, gargoyles, oni – were unfamiliar to her. Zion told her yesterday that traditional labels like ‘devil’ felt like the infernal equivalent of describing humans as ‘primates’ – clumsy and inaccurate. _No two imps were the same,_ Zion said, poking absentmindedly at Pitching Machine’s parts strewn around her with her screwdriver. _A little like you._  
  
What a funny thing to say. Pitching Machine sticks her tongue out at her reflection.

*****

“Pitching Machine, why’d you come here?” Zion asks, after a while.

Pitching Machine shrugs and several screws in her back loosen, falling back onto the workshop table. Plink-plink-plink. Zion lets out a small sigh.  
  
Pitching Machine considers apologizing, but doesn’t. “There’s a lot of robot players, but not a lot of engineer ones. Most robots don’t need the fixing, but I needed some, y’know? You’re the best shot I got, doc.”

Memories of Zion’s games play in her mind, accumulated from the dozens of Tacos briefings and training camps in the past season. Images of the little imp between innings, replacing her mech’s fifth broken arm with a sixth one. The Iron Lion, stumbling across the field, leaking oil. Stretchers, bleeding, and a lot of bandages. Zion knows all about fixing broken things.

Pitching Machine laughs, and hears the plink-plink-plink of the screws hitting the table again. This time, Zion keeps her complaints to herself. Pitching Machine fights off the urge to apologise again.

“The more you move, the longer it’ll take to fix you,” Zion murmurs. The screws are inserted back into place. “The pomegranate seeds’ effects don’t last forever. I’d hate to see you get banished out of Hades and leave my work unfinished.”

The smaller woman’s voice is rather quiet, Pitching Machine realizes. Less cheerful than other people made her out to be. _Perhaps I would’ve gotten along better with the past version of her_ , Pitching Machine thinks. _The Zion people told me about was rowdier. Louder. Happier, even._

Zion hadn’t smiled much since last season, people say.

“You’re pretty lonely, aren’t you?” Pitching Machine says pointedly. She hears Zion pause behind her and regrets not shutting up.

“Sorry.” Pitching Machine relents and apologises. “I say some stupid shit sometimes.”

“It’s—”  
  
“Just pretend I didn’t say anything. We can change topics again if you want.”

“It’s fine, really.” Zion replies. “You’re pretty odd, you know that? Yesterday you did nothing but drink apple juice boxes and talk about pitching.”

“Like I said. I’m weird. Me… being alive is weird. I don’t have a life outside of the—” She gestures to herself, feeling her chest deflate and the machinery in her guts shift around. Pitching Machine feels her chest deflate. “—well, the pitching.”

“That’s pretty much it,” she continues. “I’m Pitching Machine. I pitch, and I pitch, and I pitch.”

She hears her voice crack for the first time – a new sensation.

“Until I die.”

She sniffs. The tears were new too. She watches them drip onto the charred skin of her thighs.

“You alright?”

“Ugh. I dunno.” Pitching Machine turns to smile sadly at Zion. “I’m kinda fucked up, aren’t I?”

Zion’s hands rest on her shoulders as she sobs. Her screws fall out again. The operation’s put on hold for a few hours more, but it’s alright.

*****

“If you keep shaking the parts of out you, you’re going to die.”

_So?_ was what Pitching Machine wanted to say, but she had promised to not sound so depressing for Zion’s sake. She keeps her mouth shut.

“You’re looking good, Pitches,” Zion continues. ”We’re almost done.”

Pitching Machine inspects herself in the mirror. Zion had re-connected the large tubes that led to her heart, and the glow from them lit up her sharp features with a sickly yellow. Had her eyes always looked this tired?

“I dunno. I think I look like dogshit,” Pitching Machine concludes. “Ugly motherfucker.”

“You’ve got some beautiful stuff in here.” Zion taps her back with a screwdriver. “You pitch beautifully too.”

It takes a while for Pitching Machine to register Zion’s words and tone. _Sounds like she’s smiling,_ Pitching Machine thinks. _Wonder what that looks like._ She looks for Zion in the mirror again, but can only see her face in it.

“Thanks, doc.” Pitching Machine catches herself in the mirror — she’s smiling. Weird. “You’re very kind.”

_This was true,_ Pitching Machine supposed. Zion tolerated her antics and supplied her with juice boxes. Perhaps she hadn’t changed that much at all, deep down.

She lets her eyes wander while Zion works, taking in the oddities in the room. The corpses of Zion’s projects line the walls. Machinery on the workbenches, moved aside to make way for this operating space. She sees herself in the mirror and runs her hand gingerly along the stitches on her cheek again – the sunrise was starting to shine though the shutters, drawing lines of pale pink across her face.

Hades is beautiful, she thinks.

“You’re nice to me,” Pitching Machine continues. “Plus your robots are cool, y’know? You work really hard, and you’re really smart.”

The whirring of power tools quietens. Zion’s stopped working behind her.

“Everyone says that. Just though you should know.” Pitching Machine croaks. “Yeah, okay, I’ll stop talking now.”

Zion continues working in silence. Eventually, Zion slots the last piece into Pitching Machine’s back. The afternoon suns stream in through the shutters.  
  
Zion speaks.  
  
“You’re really easy to read, you know that? Your heart’s whizzing.”

“So?” Pitching Machine replies. _There it is again – that cheerful tone,_ she muses. _Like she’s holding back a laugh._

“Nevermind,” Zion says. She laughs for the first time. “I’ll fix that for you if your pitches get easy to read. What do you want to eat? Or do you not eat at all?”  
  
Pitching Machine replays Zion’s laugh in her head. “Something sweet.”

*****


	2. circle line

“Do you know how to get back?” Zion asks, her attention focused on cleaning up the pancake-stained plates in the workshop sink.

Pitching Machine wracks her brain for answers. Her only recent memory was the taxi she took to Zion’s workshop.

“Not really.” She checks her pockets. No cash. Seems like the slip of paper with Zion’s address she got from Vito Kravitz was gone, too. “I think I spent all my money getting here. I remember… some sort of wooden structure, like a really big treehouse.”

Zion looks out of the window, and Pitching Machine follows her gaze. Several large wooden structures stand miles apart in the distance, built directly on top of stocky houses of similar heights. Roiling clouds of bat-beasts and birds swirl around them, blotting out the suns.

Pitching Machine’s heart sinks.

“What about the train?” Zion changes the topic. “Our public transport’s pretty good; it costs basically nothing. I can spare a few coppers.”

“Uh…” Pitching Machine recalls the high speed train trips she’s taken from the edge of the underworld to the Sixth Circle Stadium and back. “I’ve only taken the line that goes straight to the stadium. Which Circle am I in, anyway? Can I just take that one?”

“We’re in the Twenty-Seventh Circle,” Zion replies. “Pretty far away from the stadium. On the bright side, we’re pretty close to the edge already! One short train trip and you’re out of here. There are several trains you can take. Here, I’ll dig up a pamphlet for you—”

Zion flits over to the other side of the workshop, returning with a roll of black paper. Dust clouds billow as she sets it down and unfurls it.

The public transport map is huge in its entirety, its ends spilling over the sides of the table. Hand-drawn inks of various colours form numerous overlapping circles on its surface.

“This one’s pretty old, but it should be… mostly correct. Mostly.”

“That’s a lot of circles.”

“Hades loves circular infrastructure. I’ve never flown high enough to see it, but they say the streets are organised like spokes in a wheel, branching out from different district centres.”

“Uh-huh.” Pitching Machine nods robotically, Zion’s words barely registering. The spider-like handwriting that spelled out the station names was incomprehensible.

“Houses get built on top of other houses around here. Hence the big wooden sky-temple things.” Zion continues. “The owners let the imps build on top of them for something in return, Bat-beast meat from the butchers that live up there, perhaps. Or blood. Or freshly baked bread—”

“Hey, Zion, is there an... an easier map?” The worry in Pitching Machine’s voice seeps out despite her best attempts to hide it. Oh god, she wasn’t going to cry again, right? Right? She had already cried once in front of Zion, which more than she had ever planned to do in front of anyone, ever.

She exhales shakily.

Okay, good.

Keep it together, Pitching Machine.

She clears her throat. “Just so you know, I wasn’t going to cry.”

“Okay, you weren’t.” Zion smiles. “I’ll walk you to the nearest station, then?”

*****

“I always thought Hades looked a little… too grand?” Pitching Machine tries her luck at some conversation. “Y’know, the fancy castles they always put on the postcards.”

“Hades is old, not grand,” Zion replies. “It only looks grand if you’re visiting the centre because that’s where the land planning bureau focuses most of its efforts. In the Outer Rings, people just keep adding on to the infrastructure–like that.”

She points down a road to their left. The asphalt is cut short, blocked off by a concrete wall much newer than its surroundings. The words _ROAD CONTINUES_ are spray-painted in neon blue, and several ladders of different sizes dangle wildly off its edge. Pitching Machine watches in amazement as a squad of pale goblins with golden teeth begin work on a wheelchair-friendly ramp.

“Huh. What’s behind the wall?”

“Hm.” Zion puts her hand to her chin in a contemplative pose. “I have no idea. I hope it’s a new supermarket.”

The two of them keep walking.

*****

The smaller woman ducks under a signboard and leads Pitching Machine along into a temple courtyard. The two of them store their shoes in the complimentary paper bags handed out at the entrance.

They walk through the temple’s dusty halls in bare feet, painted murals of unknown gods on rice paper screens surrounding them. In the distance, trumpets wail. It's twelve o'clock.

Pitching Machine squints as she exits. It’s bright outside. Several horned ladies zoom past her on motorcycles, their robes a blur of oranges and reds. The loud music from their blaring speakers comes and goes in an instant.

She grins. Hades is beautiful; full of places sacred and liminal. She decides not to say it out loud – too sentimental, she thinks. The two of them fall back into a comfortable silence and continue walking.

“Hey Zion,” Pitching Machine asks, a question popping into her head. “We’re avoiding the main roads. Why?”

Zion takes a while to formulate an answer—no one’s ever really asked. “The side streets are always faster. The god-damned land planners always build curved main roads, see? But the most direct path between two points is a straight line, generally speaking—”

“So we take the shortcuts,” Pitching Machine interrupts excitedly. “Like a fastball instead of a breaking ball.”

Zion beams. “Exactly.”

*****

“These things only exist in Hades. You’re making shit up.”

“Pitches—“

“Disgusting. What the fuck even is this thing?” Pitching Machine jabs an accusing finger at the red-and-green object in question. The foot traffic in the alley grinds to a halt as Pitching Machine stands stubbornly between the fruit stall and the alleyway exit.

“Pitches, I hate to be the one to tell you this. Dragonfruit exists outside of Hades.” Zion tries her best to steer Pitching Machine away by the shoulders. No such luck.

”You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re joking. It’s gross. Look at it.”

“I’m not joking.”

Pitching Machine buries her face in her hands. “This is the worst day of my life.”

*****

Zion frowns darkly. "We’re here, but the station–well, it looks like a firestorm torched this place. Or a rampaging demon."

She points to one of the many boulevards in their field of view. A mosque, its gold trimmings and deep red brickwork blackened with soot. Further beyond that, the ashy skeleton of an apartment block. Ghosts mill about near the train tracks, their white bodies standing in stark contrast to the rubble.

"Oh.” Pitching Machine wasn’t sure what to say. The car-sized dents in the road look like large footprints. _Zion was right about the rampaging demon, I guess._ Her inner voice is antsy; she chews on her lip. _That’s scary._

“Don't worry.” Zion shoots a reassuring glance in Pitching Machine’s direction. “There are a lot of little ones nesting in the rooftops. The damage will heal pretty quickly."

Pitching Machine looks up at the balconies. Above her, an angel lights a cigarette using the cracked halo behind their head. They wave and Zion waves back. Pitching Machine is awestruck; she watches as the halo weeps molten silver and the cigarette balances between the angel’s bandage-wrapped fingers.

“Hades really is beautiful,” Pitching Machine says out loud, after a while. God, that sounded _less_ embarrassing in her head. Whatever.

“Yeah,” Zion laughs, and Pitching Machine feels a little better.

“Where do we go next?”

“Hm,” Zion hums. _She’s resting her hand on her chin again,_ Pitching Machine notices. “Guess we can’t use this line for a while. There’s another station that serves a different line we could go to, but it’s on the opposite side of the workshop.”

“More walking? Then what?”

“Then I give you the direction to the outer edge of Hades; you take the train to the ferry terminals and… Charon takes you back, I suppose.” Zion sighs. “That’s it.”  
  
“Oh.” Pitching Machine exhales sharply. _“_ That’s it, huh.”

“Yeah.”

The two of them turn around. Pitching Machine throws one last look over her shoulder; she watches the stormclouds on the horizon warily. _Guess I can’t hang around much longer today, anyway,_ she whispers to herself. _Looks like it’s going to rain._

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little peek into hades' infrastructure. i forgot an entire paragraph (｡•́︿•̀｡) the edit function saves me once again

**Author's Note:**

> who let me design pitches as a zombie cyborg!!! this was a bad idea now all my brain cells are gone!!!!!!! anyway next chapter actually has descriptions of hades okay I promise


End file.
